The House of Discontent (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

THE next day but one, the Saturday, Edward went off on his motor-bicycle directly after lunch, saying that they were to expect him back when they saw him. Patricia could not help feeling a little pang because she knew that he was going out with Camilla. It was idiotic to feel possessive about him, and yet everything was so much more fun when he was there. She could not help feeling just a little hurt that he had not asked her to go along too, and yet that would not have been kind because it would have meant leaving Mary behind, as there certainly would not have been room for all three of them on the back of the bicycle.

It was still freezing hard and Patricia reminded Mary that Lady Brierleigh had asked them up to skate. She could not skate herself, but Mary was apparently very fond of it and Patricia thought that it would be fun to watch. Also—though she would hardly have liked to own this even to herself—she was rather curious to meet the famous Sir Anthony Brierleigh. Mary, however, was too shy to go up there without a more pressing invitation.

“If she really wanted us she would ring up,” she said. “She always rings up when she wants me to do something for a bazaar. I wouldn’t mind so much if Anthony weren’t going to be there, but he can snub one so dreadfully. If we arrived and Lady Brierleigh was out and Anthony there with some of his friends I would feel simply awful. He would ask what we had come for or something.”

“You make out that he is a veritable ogre,” Patricia said. “Well, we won’t go up there, then. What shall we do instead?”

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we? I can’t do anything in the garden. The ground’s too hard. Let’s take Pookie. He would appreciate it so much.”

So for a walk they set out, with Pookie very visibly showing his appreciation by jumping round their feet in his glee.

Patricia felt inclined to talk about Edward during the walk, and, if possible, to find out what his real feelings were towards Camilla and how strongly he was attached to her, but Mary had something on her conscience which she was longing to confess, and she had at last made up her mind to confide in Patricia.

“Do you think it wrong to write to strangers?” she began bluntly almost as soon as they had started out

“What do you mean, exactly?” Patricia asked.

“Well, you see, it’s like this—I’ve been corresponding for over a year now with a man in Malaya. It was Miss Pelly, my history teacher in Shrewsbury, who gave me his name. She asked if I would write to someone, and I thought it would be rather fun, especially as she said it would be an awfully kind thing to do. Actually it has made me awfully happy writing to him, and he writes wonderful letters—all full of poetry and everything—and he’s given me the names of any amount of wonderful books to read, and reading them and then writing back to tell him what I think of them has made me so happy all this time. I’ve spent most of my dress allowance on books this last year, but I feel I’ve learnt more through them, and incidentally through him, than in all the years I spent at school. There’s a wonderful second-hand bookshop in Shrewsbury, and I spend as long as I can in there every time I go in for my classes...”

“I don’t see any harm in that,” Patricia said.

“No, I haven’t come to the bad bit yet ... The last time but one that he wrote he enclosed a snapshot of himself, and he’s awfully good-looking (I’ll show it to you), and he asked me to send him a photograph of myself in exchange. Now this is the awful part coming. I haven’t got any photographs of myself, and, anyhow, I photograph terribly badly. The only things I’ve got of myself are some dreadful old snapshots in Edward’s album, so—oh dear, it sounds awful to say what I did. It’s going to sound even worse in words than it does thinking about it!”

“It will probably be much better after you have said it” Patricia said encouragingly.

“Well—oh, dear, here goes! I sent him a picture of Camilla cut out of a paper. It was a lovely one of her, too, in evening dress, taken at the Queen Charlotte’s Ball in London last year. I cut off her name at the bottom, of course, and just said: ‘I enclose the photograph you asked for.’ Oh, isn’t it awful? Wasn’t it a dreadful thing to do? But it somehow didn’t seem so bad at the time, because I never thought that we should ever actually meet each other ... But now—now I’ve heard he’s coming home. He has a tired heart or something. I got the letter only two days ago, and he also says in it that the first thing he will do when he gets home is to come here and find me. And now he might arrive any day! Oh, dear, isn’t it dreadful? My only hope is that perhaps he won’t have received my letter before he leaves.”

Patricia felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh, but her desire to help and comfort Mary was even stronger.

“It would be a good thing if he didn’t get your letter,” she said seriously. “It’s very probable, I think, that he won’t.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid he’s bound to get it. Is it a terrible thing I have done?”

“No, not terrible, but it was not wise, as you obviously realize yourself. But if he’s grown fond of you it will be because of your letters, not because of what you look like.”

“But it will be such a disappointment for him to expect to find a Camilla and then find only me!”

Patricia couldn’t help laughing this time. “Darling, has it never occurred to you that some people might prefer you to Camilla? Perhaps the smart evening dress will frighten him off.”

“Oh, you’re only saying that to comfort me. No man in his senses could possibly prefer me to Camilla.”

“But perhaps he isn’t in his senses. Perhaps he’s mad about you!”

“Oh, Patricia, you’re laughing at me!”

“Darling, I promise you I am not.”

Their conversation was interrupted at that moment because Pookie suddenly bolted away, barking wildly.

“Oh, bother!” Mary said. “He’s having an hysterical fit. I was afraid he would. He was due for one ... No, it’s no good going after him. He’ll run for miles, but he’ll come home again before dark. At least, I hope he will. He always does. He knows his way home all right.”

On the way back from their walk they went on talking about Mary’s friend, and Patricia said all she could think of to comfort her, but it was obvious that she was deeply troubled.

“If only I hadn’t sent that stupid photograph I should be so thrilled to think that he was coming back!” she said wistfully.

“Have you grown very fond of him?” Patricia asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have. He’s got such an interesting mind. And yet by his photograph you would never think he was that type. He looks so athletic.”

Edward did not come back for tea, and by dark there was no sign of Pookie. Mary stood at the door calling him. She was getting very worried. Her mother was most unsympathetic.

“It would be a good thing if he didn’t come back,” she said. “It would be a good riddance. It’s not healthy having all those hysterical fits.”

Patricia, momentarily losing all control in her anger and indignation, broke out before she was quite aware of what she was saying: “How can you be so cruel? Mary loves that dog.”

Dorothy was quite taken aback by this outburst. For a moment she was speechless, and then she said sharply: “I must ask you not to interfere. Mary does not need a champion in this house. I am only thinking of her good, and I repeat that it is not healthy to have a dog, subject to fits like that, sleeping on her bed.”

Patricia said nothing, swallowing back the retort which was on the tip of her tongue, and left the room and went upstairs to the bedroom which she shared with Mary. She was afraid that if she stayed in her aunt’s presence another moment she would be bound to quarrel with her, and she wanted at all costs to avoid an open breach for the sake of the other members of the family.

Nevertheless, she renewed her determination to get a post and leave the house as soon as possible. Since Edward had been there her determination had momentarily weakened, and for this she now blamed herself. She had very nearly made a fool of herself over Edward. She had only known him for two days and yet she was already hurt because he had gone out with another girl.

She took herself severely to task. She was over-stern with herself, not realizing in her own case, as she would almost certainly have realized in the case of another (for she was a person of unusual depth of sympathy and understanding), that in her homesickness and loneliness she was ready to open her heart to anyone who would be kind to her. Of a deeply affectionate nature, cut off from her father’s love, she was instinctively longing to give her heart into somebody’s safe keeping.

But it was not in her nature to indulge in self-pity. She detested self-pity, and so instead of throwing herself on her bed and sobbing her heart out in her loneliness and unhappiness, as many young girls might excusably have done in the circumstances, she gave herself a severe lecture and resolved to indulge no more in idleness and sentimentality.

“You very nearly allowed yourself to fall in love with Edward. You must be mad,” she admonished herself. “But even more foolish, you almost let yourself believe that he was attracted by you. Kindly put all these idiotic ideas out of your head immediately and think and behave like a rational human being. What you need, my girl, is some good hard work to do. You have been idle too long. Make up your mind what it is you want to do and then set about doing it without further delay ... Goodness, I’m talking just like Aunt Dorothy,” she added half aloud, and she began to laugh, and the moment Patricia laughed one could always be sure that she was her normal self again.

She re-did her face, combed her hair, and went downstairs again with her shoulders straightened and her head held high.

Edward came in at about seven, but he made no mention of where he had been. Patricia did hear him say to Mary, however: “Camilla is an awful goose. She’s as scatterbrained as a monkey. When she gets on to politics she talks the most awful rubbish.”

Sternly Patricia repressed in herself a sudden uprush of gladness and a forbidden desire to hope again for Edward’s special affection.

Dinner was over and there was still no sign of Pookie, and poor Mary was almost demented with worry. She was certain that he must have been run over. Dorothy refrained from saying anything unpleasant, but she showed no sympathy, and not even Edward, Patricia noticed, was as sympathetic as he might have been, considering that Pookie had belonged to him in the first place.

“Don’t worry so much,” he said to Mary. “He’ll turn up all right some time. Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about it. Dogs have a wonderful sense of self-protection...”

“But there are so many lorries on the road,” Mary argued. “And if he has had a fit, even if he doesn’t get run over, he will, die of pneumonia if he stays out all night. It’s freezing hard ... I’m going out to look for him.”

“Don’t be silly, Mary,” her father said. “It’s you who will get pneumonia if you go out, and that won’t help anybody, certainly not Pookie.”

“Let’s ring up the police station,” Patricia suggested. “They may have heard something. I’ll go and ring up for you.”

She went out into the hall where the telephone was, followed eagerly by Mary. She got on to the police station and asked if they had had any news of a black poodle. Yes, there had been a report that a small black dog had been found. The gentleman who had rung up had left his telephone number.

“Thank you,” Patricia said. “That’s almost certain to be the one. I’ll get on at once.”

They gave her the telephone number and she cut off and told the hopeful news to Mary. “Shall I get on for you to find out for certain?” she asked.

“Oh, do, will you?”

Patricia rang up the number that had been given to her. A man’s voice answered the telephone—a voice which sounded in some way familiar to her. “I have rung up about a dog,” she began. “I have just been on to the police station and they tell me you have found one. Is it a small, black poodle?”

“Yes, that’s right. The dog came here in a complete state of exhaustion just about sunset and lay down on the doorstep.”

“Yes, he had a fit and bolted,” Patricia said.

“I thought so. He was dying of thirst, poor little fellow. Do you want him back tonight? He can stay here quite well till tomorrow, if you like. He’s had some food and I’ve made him a comfortable bed on some straw. He’s quite all right now.”

“It would be more convenient if we could leave him till tomorrow,” Patricia said. “If you are quite sure it is not a nuisance?”

“No, not a bit. Call for him any time tomorrow you like.”

“Thank you so much. What’s your name and address?”

“Brierleigh. Brierleigh Cottage. You know Brierleigh Park? Well, come into the park by the South Lodge and you will find the cottage on your right just by the side of the lake.”

“Thank you,” Patricia said again, her heart beating fast. “Thank you so much.”

“By the way, what’s the name?” the man asked. “The dog’s name, I mean.”

“Pookie.”

“Thanks. They always feel happier when you know their names. Well, come and fetch him any time tomorrow. Good-bye.”

“Do you know who that was?” Patricia asked Mary as she put down the receiver.

“No. Who?”

“Well, the name was Brierleigh and I think it must have been Sir Anthony!”

Mary went back to the drawing-room in a great state of excitement. “He’s found!” she cried.

“Well, thank goodness. Now you can come and sit still for a bit,” her mother said.

“And who do you think has found him? Anthony Brierleigh.”

The family were duly surprised.

“They are keeping him for the night,” Mary went on, “and we are to go and fetch him any time we like tomorrow. Won’t they be surprised when they find it is us? He didn’t ask our name. Only wanted to know what Pookie’s name was. He can’t be quite so horrible after all, because he certainly understands about dogs.”

“Mary, you must not talk so much or shout so,” her mother said sharply, and Mary was immediately reduced to silence and tears of mortification sprang to her eyes.

“Let her alone,” Edward said.

“Her voice goes right through my head.”

“Come on, Patricia, we have been waiting for you to play bridge,” Peter Leslie put in, more to change the subject than because he was really impatient. “We’ll have time for a rubber or two before bed.”

Mary did not play bridge, but her father made her sit by his side and look over his hand. He wanted her to learn the game, but, as she said herself, she had no head for cards. Patricia was glad to see that once or twice he put out his hand and let it rest on her knee. She had controlled her tears after her mother’s snub, but she did not talk again for the rest of the evening.

When she and Patricia went up to bed, however, she burst out: “Oh, why is mother always snubbing me?”